Fear
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: After Lyle Bolton's arrest, Harley and the Ventriloquist are settling back in fine, but what about the Scarecrow? This is written to take place immediately following the events of "Lock-Up" (the episode, not a piece of fanfiction). No violence, no slash. Rated T to be safe. Please review this and my other stories.


Dr. Bartholomew sat in his immaculate office, updating case histories. It was getting rather late, and he had to admit that he wasn't particularly well rested, which made him slightly drowsy. In fact, he was so relaxed that his only response to the deep voiced, "Hello, doctor," was to drop his pen. Then, as the implications of the sound hit him, he slowly swiveled his chair around to face the window.

About two feet from the psychiatrist, a familiar costumed figure stood, his expression unreadable. "Is there something I can help you with?" Bartholomew asked, adjusting his glasses slightly with his left hand.

"Yes. Has the situation here calmed down following last week's incident?"

Bartholomew settled back. Ah, so that was what he wanted. A status report, nothing more. "Yes, quite well, actually. Mr. Wayne was quite apologetic following his appointment of Mr. Bolton, and so was kind enough to donate a sizable sum to be used in enticing a replacement. At the salary we were able to offer, there was a veritable mob of applicants."

"What about the patients?"

"Mr. Bolton in settling in quite nicely. As for the other inmates, some of them are sill…uncomfortable, but I trust that that will subside…soon." The Dark Knight raised a single eyebrow at this second pause, but said nothing. The doctor, feeling compelled, continued, "Dr. Quinzel has been staying closer to Mr. Napier than is quite normal- even for her- but I've told the orderlies to allow it. For his part, Mr. Wesker has become far more reticent, which was expected. However, his Scarface persona also appears intimidated by Mr. Bolton's presence." Bartholomew stopped; when it became clear that he was not merely pausing to consider his next sentence, Batman asked,

"What about the Scarecrow?"

In the somewhat tense silence that followed, Dr. Bartholomew coughed a couple of times. He also cleaned his glasses, glanced longingly at his unfinished work, opened and closed his mouth several times, and indulged in some other assorted fidgeting. For his part, Batman remained perfectly still; his only sign of impatience a slight tightening of his jaw. At long last, and with clear reluctance, the white-coated man whispered, "Professor Crane has not…been well, following the events of last week. He…can't seem to sleep anymore. He's not talking, and he seems more nervous than is…usual…for him. He avoids the other inmates, even Attorney Dent!" As he continued, the doctor spoke faster. At this point, he stood up and began to pace. "No one's seen him eat in days. I don't want to force him to do anything, or hurt him, but it may become necessary within another few days. He's obviously depressed, and he hasn't taken his eyes off of Bolton since he was committed. And…Batman?" Dr. Bartholomew spun around, but by now it was clear that the Dark Knight was gone.

…

Jonathan was in his cell. He had paced it often enough to know its dimensions. It was 10 paces on a side, and square. He had read in some medical journal (he forgot which) that stride length/height was about 0.71. Since he was about 5'9", which was 69 inches, or 1.75 meters, he probably had a pace length of about 1.2 meters. He didn't really care; it just gave him something to think about.

On this particular evening, however, he was trying very hard not to think. This was a somewhat unusual exercise for him, as thinking was usually one of his few consolations in Arkham, the hellhole even Dante wouldn't touch. Tonight, unfortunately, all he could think about, when he thought, was the sound of footsteps. They started off loud, and then grew louder. The worst part was how slow and measured they were. He would always find himself wondering where Bolton had picked up his impeccable sense of timing. Why he, the self-proclaimed master of fear, could do no better. Yet if he was fear's master, why was his heart pounding? Why was he begging for mercy and why was he terrified and deargodnotthefacepleasenoI'msorryI'msorry- STOP!

He bolted straight up in bed, then slowly, warily, curled back into fetal position, all the while thinking:

_Control yourself, Scarecrow. You are the Master of Fear, the very Lord of Darkness, the undisputed tyrant, usurper to the throne of human misery! You are not afraid._

Unfortunately, just as his heartbeat was slowing down, a voice said, "Trouble sleeping?" At this, he immediately twisted around, looking for the sound, while subconsciously tensing his muscles.

"B-Batman?" he stuttered, hating the way his deep voice trembled.

In response, he heard the low swish of the Dark Knight's cape as the detective circled his bed until he was on Crane's right, facing him. After a moment of silence that seemed interminable, he heard a sigh.

"I'm here about Bolton." The sentence had all of the calm and decisiveness that characterized his foe's dialogue, but the mention of the former chief of security was enough to make even this small mark of the familiar seem strange. Yet, Crane thought himself under control. He was the Scarecrow; after all, fear was his area of expertise. As a result, the hysteria and high pitch of his "Where? Has he escaped?" shocked him.

"No, he's secure. The real question is, are you? Dr. Bartholomew seems to believe that he's had a…an effect on you." The small catch in Batman's voice was so quick as to almost be imperceptible. Indeed, in anyone less disciplined than him, it would have gone unnoticed. Knowing that he shouldn't, Jonathan asked, "Are you all right?" He then lifted his arms slightly, preparing to shield his face should his question be taken as provocation.

Instead, the Bat seemed to consider it. He intoned, "No, I'm not. It was partially my fault that Bolton was permitted to work here, I failed to notice his abuse, and when I sent your concerns on to the Board, it eventually resulted in attacks on civilians. I've done what I could to stop Bolton, but it appears that that wasn't enough. I'd…appreciate it if you could tell me why you aren't handling this."

"I _am_ handling this!" His voice came out sharper than he intended. Nevertheless, he continued with his tirade. "I'm the Scarecrow! I _know_ fear! I've scared this entire city half to death more times than I can readily remember! Why should I be shown up by…by a rank amateur?" He looked down at his hands, blinking back tears. When he turned back to face Batman, he sensed that his ploy hadn't worked. Shakily, he whispered, "I'm supposed to control fear. It can't control me. That…that's not how it should work. I mean, if I can't control my…my fear, how am I to…to…I mean, what k-kind of a fraud can't e-even…" His voice broke. He cried softly into his hands for a moment before he remembered exactly with whom he was dealing. He quickly looked up into the shadows, suddenly desperate to see if he could read Batman's facial expression, if he could see the pity or the scorn there. Instead, he saw nothing. After a few minutes, during which he focused on sitting up straighter and trying to arrange his pajamas and sheets into some semblance of dignity, he grew impatient. "Well?" he asked, harsher than intended, and, much to his chagrin, still sobbing slightly.

After a pause, Batman said, "What makes you think that you can't control it?" Not pausing long enough to allow for an answer, he went on, "You seem to think that to control fear, you have to force it out of existence. That's not true. The trick is…living with the fear. Handling it, and using it. Turning it into courage. Bravery isn't about not being afraid, it's about being afraid but…not letting that stop you from doing what you need to. You were terrified of Bolton, but you told me, and you spoke at the hearing. You _did_ something with your fear. Turned it into a reason to act. There's no shame in that." Now he paused properly, clearly waiting for an answer.

"Al-alright," Jonathan choked out feebly. "I…can live with that."

"Good." The Dark Knight turned to leave, then turned back. Professor Crane couldn't see his face, but he could've sworn from his tone that the Bat was…joking. "Besides," he said. "I daresay that this will make good experience in your line of work. Just don't tell anyone I suggested it."

The Scarecrow couldn't help but giggle. This was _Batman_, after all. His laughter grew louder, and he was guffawing hysterically by the time the orderlies came. Batman had long since gone. Dr. Bartholomew was with them. He drew up a chair and waited for the professor to calm down.

"Professor Crane, are you…alright?" he asked hesitantly.

Jonthan…_no,_ _the Scarecrow,_ thought about it. "Yes, doctor," he said calmly, a light smile still creasing his worn features. "I'm fine now."

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1  /the-problem-with-180-strides-per-minute-some-personal-data/ (comments section)


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